


Girls' Night Out

by radial_symmetry, TheCheerfulPornographer



Category: Doctor Who, Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Supernatural
Genre: Anthropomorphic, Crack Pairing, F/F, Humor, Light Bondage, Threesome - F/F/F, Vehicular Sex, misuse of a sonic screwdriver, superwhomens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-14
Updated: 2012-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-31 04:14:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radial_symmetry/pseuds/radial_symmetry, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCheerfulPornographer/pseuds/TheCheerfulPornographer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the anthropomorphic-vehicle femslash you've all been waiting for.</p><p>Update: Ch. 3 - The TARDIS has a hot tub, the Impala has angst, and the Bentley has a special present for her friends.  And then there's porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ben and Idris

This whole thing starts when Ben meets Idris.

The year is 1948, and London is getting ready to host the Olympics and recovering after years of brutal war. Idris and the Doctor are in town — surprise, surprise — when the Doc decides to step into a certain Soho bookstore that has an _interesting_ vibe. So he heads in to chat with the bookseller, an exceedingly gay British gentleman named Ezra Fell. (The Doctor knows, of course, that most of these things aren't true: the man isn't British, his name isn't really Ezra, and he _certainly_ isn't a bookseller.) Meanwhile, Idris, wearing Her favorite police-box mask, is left to cool Her heels outside while the Doctor pokes his nose into books of prophecy, and snickers.

When the very long, very black, very _cool_ automobile pulls up to the curb, Idris's eyebrows metaphorically lift. It's obvious to Her straightaway that this is no mere vehicle. It's more of a... vehicle-shaped being. In fact, if She isn't mistaken, the purr of that engine is distinctly feminine.

The reason for this quickly becomes obvious when the dark-skinned, dark-haired, dark-suited man pushes open the Bentley's door. His human form is attractive; he looks like he's from somewhere hot. (Like India.) But to Idris's eyes, he has that certain glow and shimmer about him that attaches to everyone who moves diagonally through time. This is a being who can reach down through the layers and _twist_ , and change things — just as Idris does, when she moves otherwhen.

He eases the door closed and tenderly strokes the handle, giving the car a loving look before stepping inside the store. It's quite evident that to this being, the car is no mere vehicle. It's much more than that.

And so it is.

When the strange being's back disappears into the shop, Idris reaches down through the layers and pulls another mask up to the surface. This is a copy of a form that She has worn/will wear: a pale human woman with a heart-shaped face and reddish-brown hair piled high atop her head. In fact, it's the form that originally carried the name Idris, which She has taken for her own.

The form's clothing is not much to Her liking; nor does it fit in this time and space. She frowns, and shifts into a simple blue dress with elegant white panels on the bodice. Then She steps out.

Laying her hands against silky steel curves, Idris takes a moment to appreciate the metal's smoothness and warmth, and the pearly undertones of the deep black paint job. The car is hot to the touch, as if the tiniest flick of a finger would start its engine racing. Then She takes a deep breath and _bends_ , just slightly — and there is another woman standing next to Her.

The Bentley slowly raises her hands, holding them up in front of her face and examining them closely. Her expression full of awe, she bends each finger, one by one. Her smile is broad and genuine, full of uncomplicated delight. Then she looks at Idris, and her eyes grow wide.

"Hello", She says. "I am called Idris. I thought that we could... talk."

The Bentley smirks. "Oh, we can talk." She gives her blinding smile again, full maroon lips arching back to reveal movie-star white teeth. "I... I think my name is Bentley. But _you_ can call me Ben."

\-------

Ben doesn't care one bit that "Ben" is a man's name in her corner of spacetime. When Idris tells her, she laughs, and comments that it should be quite obvious that she's female.

Which, to be clear, it is.

Ben is a curvy girl, in just about every possible way. Curvy hips beneath an hourglass waist; curvy breasts, the kind that somehow never sag; a curvy ass that you'd be hard-pressed not to swat if you saw it sliding by you, all draped in snug black silk. Her gown — because make no mistake, this ain't a dress, this is a _gown_ — falls from her bare shoulders all the way down to the ground, hugging each curve like it might fall off a cliff. (The fabric also seems to magically repel dirt.) She wears a double-strand of pearls around her neck, always draped exactly right to draw the eye down into her cleavage, where the eye is likely to get stuck and have to battle its way out. She's slightly below-average in height, and her hair falls all the way down to her waist in thick, loose curls.

In short, Ben is one classy dame, and she wants everyone to know it.

Don't think that means that she's snobby or reserved, though. Not at all. Ben laughs loud and often, and her smile is always real. She has a mischievous streak a mile long and ten feet wide, though she would never seriously hurt a fly.

Her personality might be described in a tabloid as "vivacious".

Now imagine Ben and Idris walking through the streets of London in 1948, arm in arm. They are headed for St. James Park. This is Ben's idea — she doesn't quite understand why, but she feels drawn there. As if that's simply what one does with one's best friend.

Almost all of the men, and quite a few women, stop and stare and whisper to each other as they walk past. The woman in blue, with the elegant updo and enigmatic smile, and the woman in black with the bombshell body, both surrounded by a certain otherworldly glow; they make quite a wonderful sight. Both ignoring all of the gawkers, both completely focused on each other and this wonderful new thing, this _conversation_ , this _holding hands_ , this _touch_.

For Ben, especially — who's never been human — the feeling of smooth skin against smooth skin, so soft, is almost enough to make her engine overheat. Idris rubs Her fingers slowly over Ben's arm, down around the elbow and back up to the palm, trailing a path through delicate hairs, laying lines of coolness against the Bentley's warmth. 

Ben notices, with wonder, how some patches of skin are more sensitive than others.

When they finally make it to the park, it doesn't quite look _right_. Ben wonders for a moment if Idris did something; there are no people about and the scene is strangely static, as if it's a painted set. Before she can think too much, though, the TARDIS pulls her down into the oddly fluffy grass, and kisses her. 

Now, I don't know if you've ever kissed a time vortex — I'm guessing not — but I have it on good authority that it pretty much removes all capacity for thought and movement for at _least_ 30 minutes.

But I'm sure the girls made good use of that time.

\-------

Naturally, Idris made sure to return Bentley before her driver knew that she had left. And if she drove especially smoothly for the rest of the day, and if the purr of her engine seemed a little deeper, well... The driver probably just thought it was because he'd gotten laid.

 

 

_Coming up next: An encounter with Impala!_


	2. An Encounter With Impala

Bentley doesn't notice the Impala at first; she's too busy being irritated by its driver.

Ben and Idris are out in New Orleans, having a fancy dinner to celebrate the occasion of their 50th date. Fifty dates in fifty years, a meeting every June. Sometimes Ben picks a city on Earth, and a decade; sometimes Idris takes them Elsewhere. Despite the variety, they've fallen into something of a routine.

That routine does not typically include one part of the couple being hit on by a _man_ , who seems rudely impervious to the other woman's presence. Ben supposes that they don't give off the kind of vibes this man would associate with a lesbian couple; then again, he doesn't seem too emotionally aware in the first place.

"It's like there's something familiar about you. I'm serious, have we met before? By the way, that dress is gorgeous..."

It takes a special kind of thickheadedness to just ignore it when a Time Vortex is giving you the stinkeye. But apparently that's the exact brand of persistence that this Dean fellow possesses.

Ben has to give it to him, the man isn't bad-looking. But she is loyal to one man(-shaped being) only, and that's her driver. She grins a little, imagining Crowley's face and what he would do to this American if he saw Dean touching his Bentley, the way he's brushing his hand against her fender right now.

_Oops._

The man mistakes the smile as being aimed at him, and leans in closer, his lips practically brushing her cheek. They're nice lips, and he doesn't smell bad either — sort of metallic and well-oiled, like a clean-running engine. Still, he is so _very_ not her type. 

"Wanna get out of here, maybe go someplace a little bit... quieter?" And then he winks, blatantly and flirtatiously, long eyelashes like wiper blades, flashing down and back. 

Across the table, Idris rolls her eyes so hard it might have made her dizzy. Ben can see a golden glow starting to show around the edges of her irises. _Uh-oh._ It's time to de-escalate, before this "dude" gets himself tossed into an alternate dimension. (Ben can never stop herself from putting mental air-quotes around American slang. She may have picked up this habit from a certain angel who frequently shares her passenger seat.)

"Actually," Ben adopts her haughtiest tone, "my _date_ and I were just leaving." She pulls herself up to her full, if somewhat below-average, height, and gathers the folds of her gown around her in a manner that she hopes indicates polite resolve.

"Your... Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize that you were... Wait a second, her? Wow." Dean looks at Idris for the first time, and quickly looks away, a flush rising to his cheeks. 

_Alternate dimension in 5...4...3..._

"I'm sorry, that came out wrong." To his credit, the man seems to realize he's put his foot into his mouth. "Not... I didn't mean there's anything wrong with it, or anything. In fact, that's pretty hot... I mean, um. Sorry." 

As apologies go it's fairly lame, but it seems to mollify Idris somewhat.

"Of course, my dear. Consider the matter resolved." Ben takes Idris' arm and pulls her firmly toward the door, resolving that maybe they'll try Bangkok instead.

They make it outside without further trouble, and start looking around for a convenient alley in which to disappear. 

The humid late-spring air settles around Ben's shoulders like a shawl, and she rolls her neck contentedly. Despite this small annoyance, she feels relaxed and good, and the night has just begun. Colored lights twinkle along the car-lined street, and the sound of saxophone jazz fills the air. She's survived an Apocalypse, the world — hell, the _multiverse_ — is her oyster, and she has the most interesting being in it for her dinner companion.

She is one lucky car.

Her self-satisfied mood is interrupted when the door to the restaurant clatters open, and out rushes the man from before. _Oh no, not again?_ He looks down the other direction, and then turns. When he sees them, his eyes light up. 

"Oh, thank goodness! There you are."

Ben can feel Idris' hand clench around her arm. _Abort, abort! Turn back while you can!_ she thinks at the man, loudly. But he shows no sign of psychic hearing as he trots over, holding something in his fist. 

"Here you go, miss, you dropped your keys on the floor."

Ben's mouth opens in a silent O. Her keys... how could she have? Her keys are practically a part of her; she wears them on a silver chain around her wrist. How could they have fallen off and she not noticed? This could have been a catastrophe!

The man — Dean — holds them out to her, but then he pauses and pulls his hand back, studying the key and its insignia. He gives a low whistle under his breath. "Wow, do you really drive a Bentley? God, that's hot. I've never even seen one..."

Ben blushes, not sure how to respond.

"Do you..." he looks up at her, green eyes puppy-wide, and lays a pleading hand against her arm. "Do you think I could see it? Sorry, I know that sounds weird, but I'm really into cars, and it would just be the best thing ever if I could just —"

His words are cut off by the loud blast of a car horn. It seems to come from the parking spot right next to where they're standing, but when Ben turns to look, the car — a long, black thing with "Chevrolet" writ on the grill — is dark and empty. 

Dean looks at it, and frowns. "Hmm, that's weird. Anyways, like I was saying, I would really _really_ love to see your Bentley —" 

Another horn blast cuts him off, again. "What the fuck?" he says, and then with more alarm, "Hey, what are you doing?"

Ben looks to see Idris standing next to that car, the Chevrolet. 

"Hey, I'm sorry for hitting on your girlfriend, but back the fuck away from the Impala, alright lady? That's my baby you're touching, there!" Dean lurches toward Idris as if to shove her away, but before he can move the blue-dressed woman does this _thing_ with her hands, a sort of complicated gesture involving _downward_ and _outward_ and more fingers than exist on a normal human hand.

There's a loud pop, and space folds inward and up in a way that makes Ben's eyes sting and water. When her vision clears, there in the space that previously held a 1967 Chevy Impala, stands a tall, lean, well-muscled black woman. She has short, no-nonsense hair, and is wearing a sleeveless t-shirt, tight black jeans... and more holsters and knife-belts than Ben has ever seen.

Somehow Ben has no doubt that the Impala knows exactly how to use every single one of those weapons, and could access it in the time between heartbeats.

The woman promptly strides over to Dean, and without comment, reaches her arm behind her and gives him a good, hard slap across the face. The crack resonates through the air like a gunshot, and when she pulls back, his cheek carries a handprint.

"Dean Winchester, what on God's green Earth do you think you're doing, flirting with that... that... that _antique_?!" The Impala points a dramatic, accusatory finger at Ben. "Don't think I didn't see you playing with her keys! What, are _American_ cars not good enough for you all of a sudden?" 

She pushes her finger into Dean's chest, hard. "I don't care how big her headlights are or how shiny her paintjob is. You are _my_ driver, buddy, and you better not forget it!"

Dean looks at her, opens his mouth and closes it again. He seems unable to move or speak.

"Well?" she demands. "What do you have to say for yourself?" Her voice is deep and throaty, the accent vaguely Midwestern; Ben finds it strangely compelling.

Dean's mouth opens, and his mouth closes again. Open-close, open-close, over and over, like the blinking of a turn signal on a 50-mile straight highway. It's slightly mesmerizing, but Ben finds herself wondering just how long he'll keep it up.

Idris apparently has a shorter attention span. After a few of these cycles, she steps over to Dean and presses two fingers toward his forehead. He sees her coming and tries to duck away, but she is inhumanly swift, her movements blurring. He only has time to croak, "Not you too —" and then he is slumping to the ground, already snoring.

Impala turns to Idris with her hands on her hips. "What did you just do to my driver?" she huffs.

"Don't worry about it, I've just sent his consciousness elsewhere for awhile. You weren't going to get much out of him anyways, in case you didn't notice," Idris explains, bending over and picking Dean up like he weighs nothing. Ben looks down the sidewalk, and notices that they are no longer surrounded by buildings and people. At some point during this little episode, their chunk of sidewalk and street has become encased in a convenient patch of glowing grey fog.

Impala gives the fog an experimental poke, and recoils when it tries to wrap around her finger. "Where are we?" she demands, turning toward Idris while reaching toward one of her many holsters. "And what have you _done_ to me?!?"

Suddenly Ben has had quite enough.

"You there!" Impala turns at the sound of Ben's voice. "Don't talk to my girlfriend that way! She isn't trying to hurt you, she's trying to help. Didn't you enjoy being able to yell at your driver, instead of just honking? You should _thank_ her, instead of offering threats!" The Impala looks at Ben with narrowed eyes, but she moves her hand away from the gun.

"Yeah, I guess that was pretty sweet. Heh, I love the man, but I've been wanting to do that for awhile." 

Impala pauses and eyes Ben up, considering. "Is your 'girlfriend' the reason you look like a driver?"

"Yes, Idris gave me this form, just like she did to you just now. But she didn't create my mind, and the same goes for you. You had it already, didn't you?"

"Um, yeah."

"Didn't you ever wonder where it comes from? I mean, you're around other cars all of the time, right?"

"Yeah..."

"And they don't all have minds of their own, do they?"

"...I don't know. I mean, how would I know if one did?"

"...Hmm. That's a good point." Ben had never thought about it before. Could all cars be driving around _thinking_ to themselves?

Idris chimed in. "They don't. I can see it when there's something more, the spark of life. And there are only a handful of 'cars' in this spacetime that possess that spark."

"Yes, exactly what she said. And why do you think that you and I are special?"

Impala tilts her head to the side. "Can't say I know," she says slowly.

"It's because of your drivers," says Idris. Impala smiles at her fondly. "Both of your drivers love you with a love that goes far beyond the normal affection between a man and his vehicle. And both of them are also... special individuals, albeit in different ways. Both are... _chosen_ , in a sense, due to the force and weight of their affections; both carry the ability to bend the universe, if only just a little, with the power of their will."

"And because of Dean and Crowley, here you both are." She steps up and puts her arms around both of them.

"How about you? I mean, what _are_ you anyways? You don't look like any car that I've ever seen," asks Impala. 

Idris smiles, secretively. "Oh, I'm not. In your language I would be called a Time and Relative Dimension in Space, or TARDIS, although that isn't a fully accurate translation. I was born this way, as are all of my people. And I don't have a driver; I have a Doctor." She puts her hand to her mouth, as if sharing a wicked secret. "I stole him away," she whispers, "and now he's mine. He calls me Sexy."

"Humph," Impala rolls her eyes. "Well, Dean calls me Baby, so whatever." 

Ben feels briefly left out, and decides to nudge Crowley in the direction of a nickname.

"So, what, you guys sneak off and go on lesbian car-dates or something? A little lube job and some regular maintenance?" She smirks.

"Yes, that's pretty much it," says Ben, ignoring the insinuation. "In fact, we were just thinking about changing venues. How about it, Impala? The night is still young, and Idris can return you before Dean notices you're gone."

Impala grins broadly, showing off a grill of straight white teeth. "Fuck yeah, I'm in. And, by the way, you guys can call me 'Pala." She throws an arm around Idris, and Ben can feel fingers playfully grabbing at her rear bumper. "This might be the most fun I've had in a long time — and I say that as a car who leads a pretty crazy life. Let's go!"

Carried along by the other car's excitement, Ben slings her arm around Idris as well, and slips the tips of her fingers into the trunk of Pala's tight black jeans. The three women share a smile as they once again prepare to hit the road.

 

 

_Coming up next: Possibly some sex, if the author can man up enough to write it!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My mental image for 'Pala is part Grace Jones, part Freema Agyeman.


	3. BFFs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains mention of marijuana (though no one gets high) and really mild bondage.
> 
> Also, Impala angst. (Maybe she gets it from her driver?)
> 
> And porn like whoa.

They end up on an island, somewhere tropical and warm, with palm trees and a sky filled with stars that look achingly close and bright. Pala stretches her arms up to the sky and arches her back, feeling warm and relaxed, with a belly full of spice. Eating human food is sort of like being given the highest grade of gas, but even better. 

The variety of texture and flavor... She shakes her head. No wonder her driver refuels so many times a day.

Idris is clutching a wide martini glass full of something purple and gently luminescent, which never seems to empty no matter how much she drinks. Ben is sucking a passionfruit mojito through a ridiculously long curly straw, and Pala laughs when she thinks about how the Bentley had shut down the Thai bartender who insisted that she was drinking it "the wrong way". 

Impala herself had felt overwhelmed when they got to the first bar and she saw the vast array of bottles and glasses. Idris had slipped behind her and rubbed a hand along one arm. "It's okay, dear; it's natural to feel overwhelmed, your first time out. Just go with something familiar. What does your driver like?" Pala had ended up with two bottles of a beer called "Tiger", one for each hand. At first the beverage tasted bad, but she found that it grew on her the more that she drank.

Now the bottles are both empty, so she sends them Away, to the same place where she left the weapons and holy water from her trunk. ("They won't let you into any bar like that, darling," Ben had said, and it was true.) Pala smirks, imagining Dean's confusion when he wakes up and finds the bottles of foreign beer. 

He'll probably blame Sam — but never say anything to him about it, of course.

"Woo hoo!" Ben, for some reason, is spinning like a top, looking up at the stars with her arms flung wide as her gown flies out and twirls around her. She makes it ten times around before she topples, giggling, and lands face-down on the soft sand.

"Trying to give the beach a hug?" Impala snarks. 

Idris bends over next to Ben and begins to rub her back, and Pala falls silent, watching the two older vehicles together. Even before they told her, she could tell that they had been seeing each other for a very long time. There is a grace and an ease in their interactions, a familiarity that speaks of a long history together. 

Now, of course, she also knows that tonight is their 50-year anniversary. 

_50 years... That's longer than I've even been alive._

Pala can't help but feel out of place, an intruder forcing her way into their special day. The feeling has been creeping up on her all night, even though Ben and Idris have been nothing but welcoming. They're just both so classy, and so British, and Pala feels very American and very young. Hell, they've been all over the _universe_ , and she's never even left the US before today.

She looks away and ponders walking down the beach a bit, trying to give them a little privacy.

"Gravity!"

Idris' voice brings her attention back. The vehicle (who isn't a car) has a way of making everything she says sound deep and important, no matter how random.

"Gravity?" Ben asks.

"Yes! That's one of my favorite things about this universe, is gravity. All those objects with mass, all..." Idris waves her arms around in a sweeping and intricate gesture that manages to simultaneously convey the movements of stars and planets, and also look like a description of a really complicated orgy.

"Bugger gravity," Ben giggles. "S'a bit hard on the old girls, am I right?" She flops up onto her side and runs a hand over her breasts, poking at them inquisitively and grinning as they jiggle. "Without gravity, we wouldn't need brassieres! Am I right, Impala? Back me up, here."

"Whatever, your curves are made of steel 99% of the time," Impala snarks back. "They can't exactly sag, can they? And I'm not even wearing a bra." She looked down at her own, much smaller breasts, and frowns. 

"But without gravity, there would be nothing." Idris is off in her own world, pondering topics much larger than even Bentley's breasts. "You should see the universes without gravity... Most of them are just a vast soup of matter, without differentiation. No planets, no stars, no galaxies, no mojitos. No Bentleys, no Chevrolet Impalas. Just an infinite space full of particle stew..." she drifts off, into an awkward silence. 

After a moment she seems to notice the other two staring at her, and clears her throat. "I mean, it's not even a good stew. It tastes sort of like bad miso that's been left out in the sun."

A smile tugs at the corner of Pala's mouth, and gradually steals across her face until she breaks out into a loud guffaw. "Bad miso... Holy shit. A universe that tastes like bad miso soup..." She cracks up completely, and has to brush away a tear of laughter from the corner of one eye. "Tell you what, you guys are a trip and a half. I wish I'd met y'all years ago..."

"Yes!" says Ben with great enthusiasm; but she says _everything_ with great enthusiasm. Pala doesn't lend too much credence to that. 

Then Ben's eyes light up. "Oh, I almost forgot. I brought something for you guys!" She reaches into her Away, and pulls out a potted plant with spiky leaves. 

Pala snorts. "A houseplant? Oh, you shouldn't have... Considering that none of us have houses."

Idris tilts her head to the side and examines the plant intently. "A human narcotic? What have you brought us?"

"It's called marijuana! I borrowed it from Crowley, my driver. He calls these plants his 'little secret'." This time, Bentley actually makes the air quotes. "He says it helps him to relax. And I thought, maybe we could relax too! So I borrowed one from him for the night."

"Oh, okay, weed. I didn't know that came from a plant," Pala mutters. Dean has utilized weed in her backseat once or twice, usually in the company of an attractive young woman. "Your Crowley must have quite the green thumb."

"Oh, yes! He grows tons and tons of different things, I'm forever helping him transport them places." She frowns at the plant in her hand. "These plants are special, though; he has special lights and fertilizers and things, and he has to grow them in a closet, because Aziraphale doesn't approve."

"Who's Aziraphale?" They haven't gotten around to talking much about their drivers.

"He's an angel. He's Crowley's BFF. That's what our friend Anathema said, anyway."

"BFF, huh?" Pala grins. "Do you even know what that phrase means?"

"I think it means that they're friends who have sex. Like 'Best Friend Fornicators', or something."

"...Okay."

They fall silent, all staring at the plant.

"So when my driver has weed, it's like a little white cylinder that he lights on fire, and then he puts it in his mouth. How do we get that from this plant?"

"I don't know... Er. I've never actually seen Crowley do it."

They all stare at it some more. Eventually Ben sets it down on the ground and backs away. "We could try just lighting it on fire and breathing in the smoke?"

Idris shrugs. "I suppose that might be worth a shot." 

Pala pulls a lighter from her Away. "Shall I do the honors, ladies?"

"Sure, give it a go."

It takes a few tries, but eventually she gets the edge of one of the smaller leaves to catch. The three of them huddle around it, valiantly trying to breathe in the thin curl of smoke that wisps up from the leaf before the flame burns out.

They look at each other. "Anything?"

Ben shrugs. "I mean, I do feel pretty relaxed."

"I feel the same as before," says Idris.

"...Well, maybe marijuana doesn't work on TARDISes," says Ben, obviously trying to hide the note of disappointment in her voice. Pala can't help but feel bad for her, she obviously wanted to do something special for her girlfriend tonight.

The thought once again makes Pala feel like an intruder, and she subtly edges away from the other two.

"Well, I also have something for us all," says Idris, in an obvious, but welcome, attempt to break the silence.

"Ooh, ooh, what?" Ben is actually jumping up and down with excitement.

"The Doctor's current companion seems to quite enjoy sitting in a container full of warm, moving water. She calls it a 'hot tub'. And so, I have created one for her to use. Since we are also in human female shapes at the moment, I thought that the three of us might enjoy it, too."

"You've got a hot tub? Score!" Pala's eyes light up, she can't help it. Ever since hearing Dean exclaim over his escapades in a hot tub at some party, she's been curious about them. "But isn't it, you know..." Pala gestures awkwardly. "In you?"

Idris shrugs. "When you look at it from a certain perspective, everything in the universe is in me, including all of us right now."

"Kinky." Pala smirks. "So you're just a walking, talking orgy?"

Ben rolls her eyes, and smacks Pala playfully on the arm. "Oh, stop it, you." Idris gestures in that way that she has when she's Doing Things. This time, she pushes her hands in toward her belly and then pushes them out, in a move that looks like a slow-mo Running Man. And suddenly, there's a hot tub on the beach. 

It bubbles away merrily, and its interior lights show wisps of steam that gently disperse into the night.

"Hell to the motherfucking yeah!" Pala rushes toward the tub, and is about to stick her foot in when Idris grabs her arm.

"In all of the cases that I've seen, humans shed their clothing before entering the hot tub."

"Oh right... nudity." She looks down at her sleeveless top and tight jeans. The belt looks confusing, but the shirt comes off easily, flying over her head to be discarded on the sand. The tropical wind brushes against her flat stomach and small breasts, and a pleasant shudder sweeps through her, for no reason. 

She notices with interest that her nipples are changing shape, rising up from her skin into small, round pebbles. She brushes against one with a finger, just to see what will happen; it grows even larger and rounder, as another shudder sweeps through her and makes her muscles clench.

It feels interesting, so she does it again.

"Sometimes I forget that this comes off!" says Ben, pawing at her gown. "Er.. Can I get some help, here?"

"Sure, let me," Pala says, tearing herself away from her self-exploration and stepping over to stand at Ben's back. She blames that strange shudder for what she does next. 

Instead of starting to untie the laces right away, Pala rests her dark hands again Ben's pale shoulders, and slowly slides them down the sides of her back, letting her thumbs pass over each triangle of skin that's exposed by the gown's lacing. Ben's breath hitches and she steps back, leaning against Pala in such a way that her firm, round rear is pressed against Pala's thighs. It feels good, but Pala remembers her task and bends Ben forward so that she can reach the ties without losing that enjoyable pressure.

Ben lets out a tiny moan as Pala begins to slowly untie the laces of her gown. She doesn't quite understand what compels her to do it, but as Pala pulls the long ribbons free from each hook, she presses her lips gently against Ben's pale skin. It's only a slight pressure, nothing too intense; just a teasing trail of warmth down the center of her back. 

It seems to be effective, judging by Bentley's shudders. 

But when Pala unhooks the last ribbon and rises to her feet, she's startled to find another pair of hands wrapped around Ben's neck and back. Idris and Ben are engaged in a deep lip-lock, looking like they're battling to swallow one another's tongues.

Oh. So it wasn't her, at all. 

With a sinking feeling, Pala watches for a moment. 

They're so wrapped up in each other. And, so what? It's their 50-year anniversary, after all. Who does she think she is, trying to insert herself in the middle of that? 

It's just plain selfish, is what it is.

Pala turns her head and takes a deep breath. 

Right. She should just leave, give them some privacy. Hell, they've been building up to this all night; she's probably been cock-blocking them for way too long already.

She turns sharply on her heel, and starts to take broad strides down the beach, kicking up sand with every step. It's childish, but her fists ball up, and she contemplates finding a tree to hit. This skin that she's in is so soft and squishy, she imagines it would cause damage; but she mostly doesn't care. She wants to wreck something, or get wrecked; it doesn't matter which.

It's like she saw something for a minute, and thought... But of course not.

"Oh no you don't!" Idris' voice cracks like a whip, breaking into Pala's self-pitying monologue. "Where do you think you're sneaking off to?"

Pala pauses, but doesn't turn. "I was just gonna leave you guys alone," she mumbles.

"What was that? I couldn't hear you." Idris sounds almost like an angry mother; it would be funny under other circumstances.

"I _said_ , I was going to leave you guys alone, so you could have some privacy," Pala says, turning back around and over-enunciating every word. 

Great. Idris sounds like an angry mother, and now Pala is reacting like a 16-year-old. Way to impress the cool kids, there.

Both Idris and Ben are staring at her. Ben looks confused, and Idris just looks pissed. 

"So, what, you lead us on all evening, and now you decide you're not interested? What, is my girlfriend not good enough for you?" Idris takes a step toward Pala, eyebrows pushed down into a glare.

"I... Wait, what? I'm sorry, I don't..."

"Oh, Manchester!" Ben exclaims. "You're both giant idiots, you do realize that." She starts to walk toward Pala, and as she does, her gown slips the rest of the way off, revealing a classy set of black lace lingerie. It's more than a little hypnotic. Pala blames the complex sway of those breasts for the fact that she just stares, dumbly, until Ben is right up in her face. 

Finally she looks up, and tries to take a step backward just as Ben's hands close firmly around her wrists.

The older car is a lot stronger than she seems.

Ben pushes Pala's wrists behind her back and holds them there in an unbreakable grasp, while she leans in close and whispers right in Pala's ear. "You think that we don't want you, is that it? You think that somehow we invited you to come with us by mistake? That Idris didn't know exactly what she was doing, when she gave you this form?"

Pala looks at Ben wide-eyed.

"Chevy, please. Idris always knows exactly what she's doing. And I may be a lady, but that doesn't mean that I'm naive. Of course we want you. That's the whole point of all of us going here together, isn't it?"

Before Pala can formulate a response, another pair of hands snakes around her waist. For a second her hand reaches for a weapon, but she relaxes at the sound of Idris' voice next to her other ear.

"Do you trust us?"

Impala swallows. She's seen a lot in her relatively short life, enough to know that trust is something earned. But these two are _like_ her, in a way that she's never seen before. They may be the only two beings truly like her that she'll ever meet. And that's something she hadn't even realized she wanted, until now.

"Yes," she whispers. 

Pala looks up to find Ben's dark red lips curving up into a wicked grin. "Good. You won't regret it."

Suddenly Idris' hands are fumbling with the buckle of Pala's belt and drawing the wide band of leather away. It winds out through the loops of her jeans, one by one, until the entire belt is looped around Idris' slender hand. Then that hand disappears behind Pala's back.

She gasps at the first touch of smooth, warm leather against her arms; and then Impala forces herself to remain still while Idris winds the band tightly around both of her wrists in a figure-eight pattern. "There, see? You're not going anywhere," Idris whispers in her ear, while buckling the ends together. The belt is loose enough to be comfortable, but tight enough that she couldn't slip out of it without serious contortions. It binds her arms together firmly, where she can't use them; it makes her arch her back, and pushes her breasts forward. 

"We're going to show you exactly how we want you," Idris announces, matter-of-factly.

"O-okay.." Her voice is cut off by Bentley, who leans in for a kiss and expertly slides her tongue into Pala's mouth. 

She gives up thinking and decides to go with the flow then, as Idris peels her jeans down around her knees. Then there are hands everywhere, slow fingertips tracing lines of warmth against the darkness of her skin. Ben starts at her neck and slips downward, running over the curves of her breasts and the tender skin along her sides, while Idris moves from her ankles to her calves and up over her thighs.

They meet in the middle, and suddenly there are two hands pushing Pala's thighs apart, while another slides down the curve of her ass, and a fourth makes its way down from her bellybutton. She loses track of which hand belongs to whom; she rapidly stops caring, when the hands approach the most sensitive skin and trail teasing fingers along the wetness between her thighs.

Then there are fingers inside of her, more than one, and she's wet and wide and ready, but the shock when they push in ruins her balance. Pala is agile, but with her hands bound, she can't recover. She goes toppling backward with a squeak, until strong arms catch her and lower her down. Idris' body underneath her is strength covered in softness, and then Ben is lying on top. Suddenly it's an Impala sandwich, with breasts and fingers and tongues everywhere.

Pala swears that there are more hands on her than there should be, but they keep moving, teasing, touching, and she can't keep track. Fingers ghost over her breasts, caressing and rubbing the nipples between fingers, until the sensation goes right down to her groin and she arches her back as far as it can go. Other fingers slide between her buttocks, and slowly, teasingly circle the sensitive ridges of that circle of tight skin. Still others fingers move in and out of her, covered in her own wetness, stretching and filling in a way that feels glorious, putting pressure on that perfect spot inside that makes her thigh muscles clench with every stroke.

Being bound means that she is freed from having to participate; all that she can do is _feel_. So she does, moaning and trembling, muscles tensing and releasing in a rhythm that isn't under her control. Someone is kissing her, and first it's Ben and then it's Idris, and then when Ben takes up a long silk shawl and ties it around her eyes, she doesn't even know anymore. It doesn't matter, all that matters is that some tongue fills her mouth and some soft lips press against her own, comforting her, reminding her that she is not alone.

So very not alone.

Despite all of the fingers everywhere, they avoid touching her clitoris for the longest time, denying Pala the one thing she absolutely needs to get over the top. Finally, when she's moved past begging and into incoherent whimpers, something warm and hard presses against her skin, right below her navel. Whatever it is starts gently buzzing, and moves downward slowly. Pala can feel the vibrations through her entire body long before the thing ever goes between her thighs.

When it reaches her pubic mound, the thing stops moving, and Pala thinks that she could cry. It holds in place for a moment, pressed into her skin; the vibrations are almost enough to put her over, but not quite. Not quite. She's pretty sure there must be tears in her eyes, and spares a moment to be grateful for the concealing scarf. Then the mouth that's pressed against hers lifts, and Ben's voice says, "Impala. Say yes."

She knows what it means, and does not hesitate. "Fuck, yes!"

When her lips close around the word, the buzzing thing finally, finally slides into place over her clit, and the fingers push in even harder. It's right on the verge of being too much, too hard, dances right along that edge of painful intensity — and then finally.

Finally.

Finally Pala breaks open, and her orgasm seizes her like an electric shock. All of her muscles lock up tight, and she arches wildly into the air and screams, without any self-restraint. 

The thing is, it doesn't end. After the first wave, there comes another and then another, relaxing and contracting again and again, never getting less intense. She doesn't know how long it goes on, hasn't a clue; it could be minutes or hours that she stays like that, held at the very peak of orgasm. 

If it weren't for the belt and the blindfold she couldn't do it, it would be too much. She would run, screaming. But the leather against her wrists and the silk scarf over her face help keep her anchored, force her to stay with the sensation. She feels, and breathes, and comes and comes and comes, until all of her muscles are exhausted and sore. 

After some uncountable span of time, when her throat is raw from screaming and her clit is starting to become over-sensitized, the buzzing thing finally has mercy and withdraws. The fingers slip out of her slowly, one by one. 

They don't leave her, though, and for that she is grateful; they stay pressed against her skin, holding her in place, slowly and gradually bringing her down. They move against the belt buckle and unwind the strap from her wrists, stretching out her arms and easing the tense muscles. They lay her out on the soft grass as the body underneath her moves out of the way, and they stroke her sore thighs and legs until they completely relax.

Last of all they unwind the length of silk from around her eyes, and Pala blinks upward into the brightness of strange, Southern-hemisphere stars.

After a moment of readjustment to seeing, she turns her head to see Ben and Idris, arm-in-arm, looking at her. Idris' expression is typically inscrutable, but Bentley looks almost slightly nervous. 

Ben speaks first. "Well? Do you believe us now?"

Impala smiles, and then cracks up, worn-out body shaking with laughter as she holds out her arms so her girlfriends can help her up.

\----

They end up going to the hot tub after all. Pala sinks down into the hot water with a moan, letting it relax her sore and stiffened muscles.

"Worn out, hey?" Ben teases, with a grin.

"Hell yeah! And it's all your fault, both of you." Pala winks. "Hey, what was that buzzy thing, anyways?"

Idris turns her palm down and then up. When she opens her fingers, she's holding a smooth metal cylinder with a round, smooth tip and a slender, tapered shaft. "Do you mean this? My Doctor made it for me, as a present. It's sonic."

"Yeah? Well, whatever it is, it's pretty great. I wonder if Dean could make me one? He knows how to build things..."

"Hmm. I don't think you have the tech here, but it's possible he could come up with a mechanical analogue."

Pala shrugs. "If there's one thing he knows, it's how to improvise."

They lapse into silence, then, and float in the warm water until their skin starts to become wrinkled and pruned.

\----

As they're dressing, Idris comes over to Pala. "Well, what do you think? Will you come with us next year?"

"Baby, I'll come with you anytime you want, as many times as you want." Pala winks. "But seriously, Idris, this is the most fun I've had in, like, ever."

"Good. I'm so glad." She leans in closer. "I think that having Ben in your life will be very helpful to you in the years to come."

"Huh? Why's that?"

Idris just smiles that inscrutable smile. "Don't worry about it for now."

Bentley comes over then, having collected her purse and scarf, and throws her arms around them both, grinning. "Next year, hey?"

"Indeed."

"Next year," Impala echoes. "And for many years to come." She throws her arms around her girlfriends, and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, this chapter was an absolute bitch to write. I mean, it fought me tooth and nail, the whole way.
> 
> But finished is better than not finished, and at least the story is finished. Even if I still can't completely believe that I wrote this. :)
> 
> I'm thinking of doing an addendum in the same universe, with Idris, Aziraphale, and Castiel hanging out platonically. Naturally, it would be called "The Angels Have the Phonebox"...


End file.
